Dust (abridged)
by natida
Summary: Hermione lifts her head to look at him, and he leans sideways beside her, impossibly dark eyes fixed on hers. "Well," Scabior says lightly. "Who'd you kill, beautiful?" Wild West, Muggle!AU. Abridged version, for the QLFC.


**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. The full version can be found in my profile, so please read that one if you're not in the QLFC!**

 **I've done my best to make this as historically accurate as possible. The cattle drive Scabior references, for example, actually did take place in 1866 during the first large-scale effort to drive cattle from Texas to Missouri.**

 **(word) chasing  
** **(creature) mermaid  
** **(gemstone) Topaz**

 **Word count: 3,000**

 **Thank you so much for being the best beta ever, Lizzie!**

* * *

 **1868**

 **Fawkes, Arizona**

It isn't nearly as hard as she had thought it would be.

It's even _easy_ , really, to leave the painful weight of her life behind and set off with only what she can fit in a wagon. She settles down in a town camouflaged by dust, and steps into her new life as if it's a memorized choreography: the squeaking of her chalk against a board and the shuffling of her students' feet beneath their desks and the brownish haze of the air—

It's almost _too_ easy.

Hermione's never liked things that come easily.

It's been five years since she'd arrived at the Weasley farm, and it's been five years since people started calling her _Miss Jean_ ; five years since she forced herself to forget her real last name is _Granger_.

The man rides into town on a Wednesday afternoon as she's leaving the schoolhouse, and she has to put her hand up to block the sun in order to make out anything under the brim of his hat. It takes her a moment to realize that he's in _shackles_.

She squints at Sheriff Mad-Eye as he rides ahead of his prisoner, hand clutching the reins of his own steed and those of the spry black mare behind him, and she knows that she ought to be preoccupied by the clinking of the handcuffs around the stranger's wrists, but she's too busy staring at his face.

Because the man is looking at her from deep, dark eyes that would look melancholic if they weren't so goddamn sardonic—and he has high cheekbones, dark hair in a messy ponytail and deeply tanned skin, and he's perched on the saddle like he's right at home, really, as he looks at her.

And he _smirks_.

Hermione holds his gaze as Mad-Eye yanks the mare forwards. She hears rather than sees Cormac stride up to her, hat in hand. He always insists on escorting her home.

"Who is he?" she asks him.

"Some outlaw," Cormac says. "He tried to rob a stagecoach. Shot a man."

"He killed someone?"

"Just grazed him. The man's gone on to Malfoy Ranch—he's come from Kansas to see Mr. Malfoy." Cormac kicks the dirt with his boot, and she's absently aware that she ought to be locking the schoolhouse now, instead of standing outside in the heat without a bonnet. "It's grim business, Miss Jean. Not the kind a pretty lady like yourself should be concerned about."

"From Kansas?"

"Yeah." Cormac looks uncomfortable. "A lawyer or something. You ready to go, miss?"

Hermione keeps her eyes on the road. The dust has begun to settle and it's almost as if the two riders have been a mirage; but there's a problem on her mind, a series of complicated calculations that start with the outlaw's smirk and end five years ago in a mine in Kansas. . . .

She seizes her bonnet and locks the door.

 **…**

Her father used to give her math to do when she was young. School was too easy for her, and homework wasn't enough to keep her mind occupied. Her mother used to say that had she been born a boy she might have run for president—as it was, she'd make a good teacher until she found a husband.

Nowadays, Arthur Weasley has her doing farm-related calculations that his meager education won't allow him to do on his own. She's useful; she's busy.

She's _bored._

She wanders back into town a few hours later, a complex puzzle in her mind. Sturgis Podmore guards the jailhouse door, but her mind's already assembled a list of excuses, which is how two minutes later she finds herself inside the sheriff's office. She takes hold a rifle and comes to a stop in front of the iron bars.

The outlaw raises his head.

"Who are you?" she asks.

He's leaning against the wooden bench of the cell, the heels of his boots dragging sharply on the ground as he shifts. The corners of his lips twist into a lazy smirk. "Who's asking?"

She points the barrel of the rifle at his head, finger lingering on the trigger. He draws a breath through gritted teeth.

"The name's Scabior," he says finally.

"Scabior." Hermione replies. "You're going to answer a question for me."

He stands up slowly, not breaking eye contact. The barrel following him as he reaches up and removes his hat, stepping closer to the bars.

"What d'you want to know?"

She grinds her teeth together. "The man you tried to kill—in the stagecoach—did he wear a glove on his right hand?"

Scabior reaches out to stroke one of the bars of his cell, eyes still fixed on hers, wide and serious and vaguely amused. "Firstly, I wasn't trying to kill him—I shot at him to put the fear of God in the coward. I don't miss," he adds, and his eyes flash. "Ever. Secondly, yeah. He was wearing only one glove, and I suppose it must've been his right hand."

She swallows. "Short, fat man, with a face like a rat?"

He nods once. "Why?"

"Did he have a lot of papers in there with him?"

He steps closer to the bars and closes his fists around them, tanned knuckles turning white. The topaz ring on his index finger clinks against the metal as he looks her up and down.

"I suppose he did have papers with him," he says, tilting his head slightly, gauging her reaction. "All rolled-up-like. Took 'em with him when he ran."

She draws in a breath and slowly lowers the weapon, eyes unfocused as she takes in the information. And the thrill—the one she'd forgotten about in these past five years—flows through her body like a wave and makes her fingertips tremble.

Scabior is still staring at her. Hermione props the rifle against her leg and meets his eye. "Not much of an outlaw, are you, trying to rob a stagecoach all on your own?"

His lips tighten over his teeth. "I've done it before. If peg-leg hadn't stopped me—" He shakes his head. "I've been known to do excellently."

They hold each other's gaze for a moment, and then Hermione glances at the window. The sun is beginning to sink in the sky. Her time is running out. She turns back to Scabior.

"I've got a proposition for you. I want to kill the rat-faced man."

The words ring in the eerie silence of the room. Scabior lets go of the bars and toys with the ring on his finger.

"Have you killed a man before?"

"Once."

"Shot him?"

"Drove a knife through his heart."

His grin disappears. "And where do I come in?"

"I need someone to help me get into the place. I need to shoot him and take his papers."

"What place?"

"Malfoy Ranch."

She thinks he's expected that answer—hoped for it, even, because there's a sudden gleam in his eyes. He grins slowly, dangerously. "I was hoping you'd say that."

 **…**

She lets Scabior out, hits Podmore over the head with the butt of the rifle, and takes two horses. They set off towards the crags somewhat west of the Ranch. A search party won't get far; it's too dark, and Mad-Eye, crazy as he is, won't lead a group into coyote land at night.

They dismount in a valley between the crags, and then he steps forward suddenly, pressing her between his body and the the horse as she's busy removing its saddle, breath hot against her neck, hands hovering at her sides—not quite touching, but there nonetheless—and she halts in her movements, stiffening as his nose skims her hairline.

"I could just kill you now and be done with it," he says in a low voice.

She swallows. "You'd never get into Malfoy's house on your own."

Scabior's chest is hard against her back, and she can feel his every breath, the brush of his faded-red neckerchief scratching the back of her neck, the cold topaz of his ring brushing her hip. "For someone who's set on making her second kill," he murmurs, reaching up to stroke a curl that's escaped her bun. "You're awfully judgmental."

"I don't believe in crime for crime's sake," she replies, fingers tight around the straps of the saddle.

"And this is—what?"

"Revenge." She removes the saddle and the horse ambles off to join Scabior's mare, and Hermione turns, nearly pressed up against him. The chill breeze of the night is harshly contrasted by the heat of his body.

"Well then," he says, and there's a smirk on his lips as he reaches up to remove his hat. "We have more in common than I thought."

He starts up a small fire and they sit beside it, the horses resting nearby. Hermione draws the maps and diagrams into the dirt with her finger, particles caking under her nail, and Scabior leans back on his elbows, chaps dark against the denim of his trousers, sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

"What's that?" she asks suddenly.

Scabior looks up. She's looking at his left wrist. Slowly, he turns it towards her—an M-shaped scar, thin but stark against his tanned skin. "This here's a burn. If you work for Lucius Malfoy, he brands you like the property you are."

Hermione stares. "You _worked_ for Lucius Malfoy?"

"Yeah," he says darkly. "Fifteen years. I don't recommend it, if you intend on getting your wages." He leans back again, eyes moving to the fire before he grins. "I was a cowboy in Texas most of my life—the best cattle wrangler in the state. They called me _the Snatcher._ "

"What happened?"

"Few years back, Lucius gets it into his mind to get his cattle to the railhead in Missouri, and me and some men got together and drove them Longhorns all the way up there. Hardest trip of my life, I'll tell you that." He pauses, eyes still fixed on the fire. "But these idiot ranchers, right on the border, got it into their heads that our cattle would give theirs fever and trample their crops and whatnot—completely idiotic, mind you—and said they'd do away with anyone who set foot in their lands. There wasn't anything else to do: we sold off the herd and made do with what we had.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy didn't take it too well. Didn't pay us a penny. Had me and my fellas beat within an inch of our lives and told the law we'd gone and stolen his cattle from him."

Hermione says nothing for a moment. "Must've been hard," she says.

"Well, that's life." His lips twist bitterly. "It's hard. Gonna get a lot harder for Malfoy, too, when I get my hands on him. It's a happy coincidence that rat-face was on his way to see old Lucius, or I might've missed him entirely. Speaking of which." His smile turns into a grin. "Why d'you want to kill rat-face?"

"His name's Pettigrew," she says. "He's even more of a rat than he looks."

"What'd he do to make a schoolteacher a murderer?"

She looks down at the lines she's drawn on the reddish dirt. "I wasn't a schoolteacher then. I was seventeen. My parents had a homestead in Kansas, and we struck gold. My Pa hired a lawyer—Pettigrew— who betrayed us to a group of outlaws. When they were done with my parents—" She digs her fist into the ground and stops. "Pettigrew's here to sell our land to Malfoy."

Scabior leans sideways beside her, impossibly dark eyes fixed on hers. Somehow they look _mournful_.

"Well," he says lightly. "Who'd you kill, beautiful?"

"The man Pettigrew betrayed us to. Tom Riddle."

Scabior's eyes widen. "Tom _Riddle_?"

"Yeah."

A sudden grin spreads over his face, a sort of shocked bewilderment, and she sees his mind shift as he suddenly takes stock of her again, measuring her and redefining her and _discovering_ her, and—

"I've heard of you," he says. "Quite the flurry you caused— _Hermione Granger_." Scabior shakes his head. "Powerful frightening man, Riddle was, I hear; people used to think he was nigh immortal. Takes more than a schoolteacher to kill ol' Tom Riddle."

Hermione shrugs slightly. "I told you; I wasn't a teacher then."

 **…**

Five years undercover is a long time, and yet it doesn't seem to be enough to forget. The carved slur on her forearm is only the least of the marks the year 1863 left on her, and one of the hardest parts of being _Miss Jean_ is pretending it doesn't matter. She's learned to hold up the act of a town girl, and she's learned to focus her mind only on things related to school and farm.

And now—

Hermione lies beside Scabior on the dirt and makes herself ignore the warmth of his arm pressed against hers, and listens to the chorus of insect life and the crackling of the dying embers. She breathes in the wild desert air that bears her name aloft like a banner… _Hermione Granger_.

He shifts and turns beside her, and she feels the pressure of his eyes even though she knows he can't see her.

"Why did you stay?" he asks.

"I don't know," she says quietly. "I had to run away from Kansas. You have to end up _somewhere_."

She can _feel_ his grin. His breath hits her cheek, and she wonders how close he is to her face and wonders if she wants to know _._ He lets out a low laugh.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "That's the whole point of running. You don't have to 'end up' _anywhere_."

…

They leave the valley before dawn, and Scabior immediately proves himself useful with his skill in the desert. Neither he nor his mare— _Mermaid_ is her name—need light to navigate the crags or avoid dangerous animals. He calls it _experience_ ; she calls it _luck_ and smirks at his raised eyebrows.

When they reach Malfoy Ranch, he knocks out the guards, and they ride through clumps of trees until they reach the house. Its windows are dark—except for the sitting room, where the figures of two men can be seen crouching over a table, poring over papers Hermione doesn't need to look at to recognize.

Lucius Malfoy jumps to his feet when they burst through the patio door.

"What devilry is this?"

But Hermione only has eyes for Peter Pettigrew, who scuttles backwards for cover, terror in his eyes and a piece of paper in his fist. It's like seeing a corpse come back to life; she has imagined him dead for _years_.

"Been a while, hasn't it, Lucius?" Scabior says, and there's harsh violence in his tone. "Did you think you could come so far out West and not get cornered by me?"

"How _dare_ you," Malfoy snaps, but his eyes flick to the gun in Scabior's hands, and there's a tremor of uncertainty in his voice. "My men will—"

" _Fifteen years_ I worked for you," Scabior says, voice lined with vicious anger. "I'm here for my wages. Empty your safe, _sir_."

As Malfoy moves to open the safe behind him, Hermione steps towards Pettigrew.

"Get that gun away from me," Pettigrew snaps, though the way his eyes flit between her and Scabior gives away his fear.

"I thought you were dead," she says, and her finger tightens on the trigger.

Pettigrew lets out a gasp, and maybe he recognizes her, because he suddenly throws the papers at her face and bolts. Hermione fires.

She misses.

And then she's chasing after Pettigrew as he stumbles through the patio door and climbs onto her horse, taking off at a gallop. She seizes Mermaid's saddle and is soon after him.

The house behind her quickly shrinks in the distance as the lightening horizon announces sunrise.

. . .

Scabior finds her standing at the edge of a cliff, gun in hand, hair disheveled and blowing in the morning wind. The two horses nose around some brambles.

Scabior dismounts from a thin, grey horse. Wordlessly, Hermione turns to look at him.

"Where's Pettigrew?" he asks.

She motions towards the edge of the cliff with the gun, eyes straying to the shadowy bottom. "He lost his footing and fell over," she says. "I didn't even have to shoot him."

"Well," he replies, squinting up at the sun. "Malfoy's all done and tied up—I suppose I could go back'n kill him, but I dunno."

Hermione kicks some of the crumbling rock down the cliff. It tumbles, swirling and mixing as it falls, and she estimates the speed at which it falls, the amount of time it has before it hits the ground and _breaks_ —

"Oh," Scabior says suddenly, reaching into his shirt, which is already unbuttoned halfway. "I do believe these're yours."

She takes the papers from his hands: a map of an area in Kansas that she still sees every time she goes to sleep, and a deed covered in familiar scrawls of ink. She swallows. "Did you get your wages?"

"Yeah." He shrugs. "He probably deserved to lose more, but ah—I'm feeling generous."

Hermione smirks, folding the papers and stuffing them into her dress. "Not much of an outlaw, Scabior the Snatcher."

"Ah, sweetheart," he licks his lips, his gaze moving over her face. "I've been known to do _excellently_."

In the distance, she makes out a thin cloud of dust rising over the trail. They climb onto their horses, leaving the grey one at its leisure. Scabior adjusts the hat on his head, shirt billowing in the wind as he brings Mermaid to a stop beside her.

"So, beautiful," he says with a grin. "What now?"

"I don't know." The horse shifts restlessly beneath her. "Where do you end up when you run away from Arizona?"

Scabior laughs, and with a tap from his heels, they're off at a gallop down the cliff, a cloud of dust lifting up behind them.


End file.
